


Few Short Strokes

by SixTenSeven



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Ajay is not okay, Angst, Blurred Reality, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, F/F, Friends With Benefits, Guilt, I hesitate this tag but I believe this describes their relationship best in this oneshot, Loss of Control, Memories, Mentioned Octane | Octavio Silva, Non-Explicit Sex, Painting, Psychological Trauma, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:21:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24404227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SixTenSeven/pseuds/SixTenSeven
Summary: 'Few short strokes takes the pain and destruction away.'Ajay had always loved painting.
Relationships: Bangalore | Anita Williams/Lifeline | Ajay Che
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Few Short Strokes

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, first story on this fandom but not archive :) I hope this is enjoyed.

Ajay Che wasn’t an experienced painter by any means, but she was better at it than most. A lost art, considered by some; an irrelevant hobby that, in the grand scheme of automated machines and digital printing that could do the work for you, meant a waste of time. Mediocre output for hours of work. Ajay loved it anyway. Fond memories of her painting in the office with pigment smeared across her face while her parents discussed smoke-screening their crimes always followed her. Few strokes across the canvas covered up the blood they helped spill.

Painting made her miserable.

Anita must have noticed her shaking hand, because she shifted up onto her elbows and turned her head back to her. Regarded her with an interested eye. The precarious position they were in had Ajay mounting her legs and Anita topless on her bed. They were supposed to be friends.

“Everything okay back there?”

(No.)

“Yeah. Jus makin a messa’ tings,”

It was a painting of a landscape, Anita’s back the canvas. Short green strokes of grass and short blue strokes of sky. She hadn’t remembered dipping her brush in red paint, but it was all over the grass now. What eliminated red again? Money? No, greys. Maybe she should just start over.

“Sit still nice for me,” Ajay said.

Anita dropped down to the bed and resumed scrolling on her social tablet.

Dip in grey. Few short strokes across red and green and she was back to square one. Why did Anita agree to this? Anita was reserved, stoic, less than caring sometimes.Yet she said yes to being her canvas. Said it in less than two seconds. Why did Ajay ask her in the first place?

The grass had an undertone of grey, but at least it wasn’t red. It looked like Solace’s nesting grounds. A flyer would bring it all together, but animals weren't Ajay’s favourite thing to paint. Anita also had trouble sitting still. Each muscle in her back flexed with every slight movement of arms and hips and smeared paint around. Messed up her brush. Ajay placed a hand on her hip.

“Hol’ still,”

(And she did. Very, very still.)

Few short strokes of yellow to make a sun, then a glare onto the grass. Lighter stokes of green and she had depth to the painting. A landscape untarnished by machine or blood, where the ground wasn’t marked up with the tread marks of tanks or footprints of soldiers. None of the bodies of her people on the ground, and none of Anita’s people walking triumphant with equipment supplied by-

Why was she painting?

She hadn’t done it in years.

Ajay remembered the compliments well, from men in suits and people in uniform. They always came in and out of the house, in and out of the office. It was never quiet at the Che residence. Ajay would run up and show them the paintings and they would smile and coo at the young display of talent. Then she would show it to her parents. Smiles, suggestions.

(It needs more red.)

Anita was shifting again and Ajay tightened her grip on her hip. Anita sucked in a breath. Their position was precarious. And they were supposed to be friends.

Did that explain the looks Anita gave her sometimes? Longing, affectionate looks? Did that explain why Ajay trusted her enough to bring her home? Not even Octavio was allowed here, because her home wasn’t opened to smiling strangers with malicious intent. Not anymore.

Paint was getting everywhere now, because Anita had moved over so her back was on the towel and she was facing Ajay.

“Ajay.”

Ajay was staring at her brush.

“Ajay, hey.”

Tipped in red again.

“Hey.”

Anita wiped the tears off her cheeks and sat up. Had her emotional state been any better, Ajay would be enjoying the eyeful. But instead her gaze was dull and to her lap. Saw nothing but the red paint on her palette. And oh, did Anita try to comfort her. Wiped those tears and tried to say reassuring words, but nothing ridded Ajay of the guilt that swirled in her gut. Knowing of all the hurt and pain her parents caused, and here she was sitting with a soldier whose company benefited from most of it.

Ajay looked Anita in the eyes. Those concerned, warm brown eyes.

“I hate paintin’.” She threw her brush and palette to the side.

At least Anita looked amused by the statement.

It made Ajay pushing her down to the bed that much easier. That might have been because Anita let her, though. She knew that pinning her to the bed would be impossible if Anita didn’t let her do it in some capacity. Her lips against hers and she wasn’t gentle about it, clicking teeth together and groping her with paint smeared hands and all Anita could do was try to keep up. Ajay didn’t stay on her mouth for long, because kissing was too intimate and she wasn’t sure if she deserved that.

Teeth to her neck. Lips to the wound. Covering up what she had done.

Red paint marked where she had touched her, the canvas of her skin ruined with red wherever Ajay went. At one point her teeth met her glove and yanked it off so she could press her ring and middle finger into awaiting heat. Nails marred her back with scratches (when did she strip naked?) Anita said her name like a song.

Her arm ached. Her mind was muddled with memories and reality and feelings. All Ajay wanted to do was hide away but instead here she was letting guilt and anger drive her actions as she used the person meant to be her friend. After all, a Che couldn’t go one moment without using someone or something to satisfy their own needs. It was in the blood. 

Few short strokes and Ajay left her gasping for air as she pulled her hand away.

“What was that?” Anita asked several minutes later, but she didn’t sound mad about it. Confused, maybe. Twinges of humor at best.

Ajay didn’t answer for a while. Kneeled in bed with eyes to the paint-smeared mattress, aware that she would need to shower soon if she didn’t want to stink of sex and paint. Anita’s gentle eyes watched her; her thumb rubbed itself across her knuckles. Affection. Did she deserve it? They were supposed to be friends.

“Control,” Ajay answered at last.

Anita didn’t push the issue.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading


End file.
